


Where the heart is

by crayyyonn



Category: GOT7
Genre: Gen, because Youngjae is sunshine, blink and you miss it jackbum and markjin, everybody loves Youngjae, group hug, platonic 2jae
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 09:41:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5043391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crayyyonn/pseuds/crayyyonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes Youngjae a while to understand that he's always been home.</p><p>Or, the story of how Jaebum insisted on rules for his new roommate but ends up breaking them all himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the heart is

“So.” Youngjae starts, hesitant. He’s standing at the doorway, bag in hand. Jaebum no longer looks irked about having to share, he thinks—just resigned. Youngjae is glad, even though he knows it’s not his fault that the older boy is the only one with a good-sized room and no roommate.

Well, at least he didn’t use to.

“Just put your stuff wherever. I cleared out some space in the wardrobe for you.”

Youngjae steps in, shooting a quick glance around. It’s clean and surprisingly neat, everything in their place, although the aforementioned wardrobe is actually a clothing rack. It’s sagging precariously at one end from the weight of what looks to Youngjae to be close to thirty sweaters in similar styles.

Why anyone needed multiples of near-identical outerwear, he'll never understand. At least he gets a whole drawer to himself.

With an awkward nod at Jaebum, Youngjae sets himself to unpacking, putting crisply folded t-shirts, sweaters, and pants in neat stacks in the drawers. The rolled up balls of underwear and socks go in the corners. He shakes out a jacket, a third extra one his mom made him take when she helped him pack. Two was more than enough, he'd reasoned, but she wouldn't budge. He'd given in and stuffed it in his bag in the end.

"So we should talk about ground rules."

Blinking back the memory, Youngjae nods.

"They're simple, really. Try not to eat in the room, if you can. Crumbs and spills are difficult to clean up." Jaebum pauses, then adds, "Cleanliness is Godliness, after all."

The familiar phrase startles a laugh out of Youngjae. It's his mother's favorite saying, especially when she's nagging at him to tidy up his room. It grounds him a little.

He shakes his head when he catches Jaebum's questioning look.

"Just. Keep it neat, yeah? Second, turn everything off whenever you leave the room. Lights, fan, chargers, everything that has a switch, basically.

"Sure." 

"And third."

He watches as Jaebum draws a line down the futon with one foot, neatly splitting it into two halves. "Yours," he says, indicating the half nearer the wall, then points to the outer half. "Mine. At least until the beds come in."

His expression seems to say 'cross the line and you die', and Youngjae nods meekly. Because of course he gave up the cushy life of a middle schooler, his mother's cooking, and his own room and bed for this.

"We could give a bowl of water a try," he jokes, because Jaebum still hasn't moved from the spot where he'd planted himself, arms crossed. He finds himself wondering if it's meant to make him look more menacing and leader-y, as opposed to a vaguely stiff and uncomfortable teenager who's been told to share with the new guy.

It falls flat. "Don't cross the line, right. I sleep like the dead anyway, or so I'm told. You've got nothing to worry about."

He tacks on a 'hyung' at the end, trying his best to sound reassuring and he thinks it works, because Jaebum exits the room with a terse nod, leaving Youngjae to continue unpacking in peace.

A whiff of fabric softener hits him in the face and all of a sudden, he really misses home.

 

When Youngjae comes back from practice, sweat-soaked and noodle-limbed, early and alone for once, he realizes that Jaebum left his laptop running. The screen is so dim it's almost dark but the _ding_ of a completed download was a dead giveaway.

It's still whirring when he gets out of the shower. Jaebum and Jackson's voices filter in through the closed door, and he absentmindedly towels at damp hair as he listens to the familiar cadence of their bickering. It's their brand of brotherly bonding, these not-quite-private games of one-upmanship. Youngjae doesn't understand it, not the way it brings indulgent smiles to Mark's face, the way it makes Jinyoung's snide remarks more pointed than usual. Not with his two-month tenure as newbie and the final one-seventh of JYP's newest and as of yet unnamed boyband pie.

He yearns for it all the same.

Despite nearly using up all the hot water, it hasn't improved his mood much. It's been a long day of dance practice and vocal lessons, longer still if he counts constantly feeling dowdy and awkward around the other trainees. It makes him feel uncharacteristically sorry for himself, uncharitable, especially in front of Yugyeom and Bambam. Which is unfair, because they have been nothing but nice so far.

Youngjae can't help it though, can't help the mean streak that rears its head up like a sleeping dragon whenever someone approaches to offer help—in a pat on the back or a bottle of water. He doesn't want help, doesn't need it. Especially not from the six he currently lives with.

Worse still, he can't quite help thinking that maybe he's vastly overestimated himself with this whole idol business. Dreamed too high when he'd constructed cloud castles of plastic smiles and bad outfits for himself.

All he'd ever wanted to do was stand on a stage and sing. And even that is starting to seem like a reach these days.

 

It's twenty-three eleven on a Friday, nineteen hours and forty-nine minutes before he gets his cellphone back, its grooves and dents familiar in his hand. Before he gets to call home and pretend everything is fine, going _great, mom, and how have you been?_ He doesn't for a second think she's not sharp enough to read between the lines, hear the waver in his voice through the grainy video, but he does it all the same. He's sixteen years and nine months old, he gets to be selfish a little longer.

The door opens. Jaebum is a dark outline against the light spilling into the room, and the sight brings up metaphors Youngjae quickly shoves to the back of his mind. He cows without meaning to and Youngjae has to remind himself to sit up, straighten, square his shoulders. Wolves can smell fear, and Jaebum, well, Jaebum's the leader of the pack.

Youngjae waits for him to step in and shut the door behind him. The room lights up with a click. Jaebum lowers himself to sit cross-legged across the futon from Youngjae.

"You forgot to turn off the heater," he says.

It's not quite a caution but it grates all the same, so Youngjae bites back the apology at the tip of his tongue.

Instead he says, "What's that you're downloading, hyung?"

The whispered rumors make him brace himself when Jaebum sucks in a quick breath, but he's surprised when all he gets is,

"Youngjae, you know you can talk to me, right?"

Youngjae blinks, thrown. Jaebum quickly continues, "Or, well, any of us. My point is, what you're going through, we've all been there. We get it."

 _No you don't_ , Youngjae wants to say. He curls his hands into belligerent fists, unseen from where they're tangled in his towel. He wants to argue, wants to fight, damn it, but then he catches the lost look in Jaebum's eyes and it deflates him like a released balloon. He wonders bitterly if the old Jaebum only lives in Jinyoung's teasing stories now.

"Yes, hyung."

There's a moment of awkward silence before Jaebum clears his throat. "Anyway, we're thinking of getting chicken for supper."

He doesn't trail off and Youngjae's not entirely sure if it's a question that needs answering, until he catches on when Jaebum's still at the door ten seconds later, waiting.

"Right. Um, no, thank you," Youngjae declines, politeness starching his speech. He wants, so much, but— "Vocal practice tomorrow."

He sags once Jaebum retreats, leans his head against his knees as he swallows to soothe his overused throat. He's sixteen years and nine months old, a baby by most standards, but right now he feels ancient.

 

Life at the dorm isn't much of a departure from what Youngjae already knows.

It's a lot more crowded and the musty smell of day-old socks lingers perpetually in the air, but aside from that, not much changes. Youngjae still can't spend as much time in the shower as he'd like to in the mornings and the headlocks come just as frequently as they used to.

He's just glad Jackson is the only one who roughhouses as a legitimate demonstration of affection.

There's a lot more conflict but it's inevitable, with seven teenaged boys thrown together to live in each other's pants pockets 24/7. The friction is exacerbated by their impending debut, so tantalizingly close yet never quite within reach, and served with a special side of puberty. Seunghoon turns a blind eye whenever little fights break out, preferring to leave Jinyoung and Mark to play mediator—Jaebum is much too volatile, still.

"Think of it as team building," he says as he ducks into his room in the middle of a stare down between Bambam and Yugyeom. "But please do avoid hitting each other in the face."

They do it well, even if Youngjae privately thinks Jinyoung is more smothering than mothering and Mark's placidness too unnerving. They do it well because boys their age, they're hot-tempered and stubborn, and although they get angry quickly, forget it quicker.

Squabbling or not, they're loud, all of them, even Mark when the mood strikes. And while Youngjae can give as good as he gets, the quiet of his own room crosses his mind sometimes and that's when it hits him like a punch in the stomach, how much he misses the people he left behind.

 

His sister was the first person he tells when he decided to pack up for Seoul.

"Are you sure about this? You're only sixteen, Jae, you don't need to do this now."

Youngmi folds her arms around her knees, leaning her chin on them. It's late and they're on Youngjae's bed, steaming mugs of chocolate within easy reach. The chirping of crickets from outside his window breaks the stillness of the night.

"If not now, when?" Youngjae counters. "It's a break, noona. Probably the only one I'll get, ever. Opportunities like this don't come twice."

There's a few beats of silence.

"It's not going to be easy."

"Nothing ever is, though." Youngjae shoots her a smile, part wistful and part excited, and Youngmi heaves a sigh. Reaching out, she ruffles his hair.

"What happened to the snotty five year old who tagged behind me everywhere I went? When did you grow up?"

"About the same time you grew older," he jokes, pulling a face at his sister, dodging when she clicks her tongue and raises a palm.

He doesn't quite succeed. The smack lands unerringly on his neck, light.

"That's what you get for talking back, impertinent brat."

She's all bark and no bite though, because she follows it with cool fingers over reddened skin.

He straightens, confident. "I'll make it, noona. You'll see. Then you can tell everyone your brother's an idol in JYP." He whispers the last for effect, and they both grin.

"Just promise me you'll stay away from questionable fashion choices, little brother," she replies, the fondness in her voice clear as day. 

 

" _Focus_ , Youngjae. We've done this a million times by now, how do you still not get it?"

Jaebum's anger is like a live wire. Quick to spark, it blisters everyone it comes in contact with. Jinyoung and Jackson are by his side in an instant to talk him down, while Bambam hits pause on the music. Across the room, Yugyeom and Mark's movements still.

"I'm sorry."

He is, really. He knows he's been half a step behind everyone since practice started, but he's tired. He's so tired.

"Not good enough. You think sorry's going to cut it when you make mistakes on stage? Does debuting mean nothing to you?"

Mark cuts in. "Dude, that's not fair."

"That's right, Youngjae works just as hard as anyone here in this room. Harder, even," Jackson says.

"Yeah? It sure doesn't seem like it."

Jaebum's voice is sharp, cutting angles and Youngjae flinches.

"Maybe I'm just not cut out for the stage," he mumbles, just as Jinyoung suggests that they take a water break.

The backs of his eyes prickle uncomfortably. He feels dizzy from the effort it's taking to will the spots away.

"What was that? Speak up if you've got something to say."

"Hyung," Bambam starts, but Youngjae's had enough.

" _I said I can't do this! I want to quit!_ "

The words echo around the room, bounce off mirrors and walls and the hardwood floor, propelled by the force with which they rip from his throat. Blood rushes to his head and there's a ringing silence in his ears, cut by a desperate panting that he only realizes after a moment came from him. He feels himself sway where he stands.

Yugyeom is the first to break their frozen tableau of seven, his laugh shrill and flat. "You don't mean that." He tugs his cap off, runs a hand through his hair. "You don't mean that, right?"

"If that's how you really feel, then fine. Leave. You know where the door is." 

The dismissal makes Youngjae bristle, pebbles his skin with goosebumps as he turns to the door. He hears voices calling after him, but they sound like they're coming from deep underwater, except Jaebum's. The ice in his is crystal clear.

It's the last thing he hears before everything goes black.

 

When he wakes, it's to the soft tinkling of the piano and for a second, he thinks he's back in Mokpo.

He's wondering if the past few months have been nothing but a lengthy dream when his eyes land on the bookshelf against the wall. His school books are lined up neatly in the middle row, another untouched stack piled high on the floor. The book tower looks seconds from crashing down, much like the way reality does around him.

"You're awake."

Jinyoung holds up a staying hand when Youngjae tries to sit up, propping a pillow against the wall before helping him. He brushes the hair away from his forehead. "Are you feeling better?"

Youngjae blinks, only then registering the scratch in his throat and the ache in his bones.

"You gave us quite the scare, Jae." Jinyoung's voice is softly chiding, and Youngjae flushes hot with guilt. "Why didn't you tell us you weren't feeling well?"

Youngjae doesn't answer, just closes his eyes. They're so dry, it stings.

There's a noise at the door and Youngjae looks up to see Jaebum with a tray in his hands, face tight and unreadable. Youngjae is too tired to figure out what it means.

Stepping in, Jaebum lowers himself carefully onto the floor next to Jinyoung. "Bambam made soup. Eat up, Seunghoon hyung will be back with medicine soon."

Youngjae leans forward, reaches for the steaming bowl but Jinyoung gets there first. He blows on a spoonful. "Here, say ah."

It's chicken noodle. It's Youngmi's favorite to make in the middle of winter when they're in the mood for a late night snack, the only thing she'll eat when she's sick. It's not the familiar taste he's used to—Bambam's slightly more heavy-handed with the pepper—but it's hearty and comforting all the same and it makes Youngjae's vision blur embarrassingly.

He blinks, hummingbird quick, before chancing a look at Jaebum, who still has that pinched expression around his eyes.

"Hyung, I—"

"Forget it." Reaching out, Jaebum ruffles his hair, then knocks a gentle fist against his head. "Scare us like that again and I'll beat you up for real. Punk."

Jinyoung laughs, eyes crinkling. It's warm, the sound, like Bambam's soup and Jaebum's palm and for the first time in a long time, Youngjae doesn't feel quite as empty inside.

 

There are only so many ways a person's resolve can fracture before it breaks. For Youngjae, it happens on a Tuesday.

"Jackson hyung."

It's late in the morning on a rare day off—the eve of a row of holidays—and Jackson's just padded into the kitchen, hair still damp from his post-workout shower. Jinyoung and Yugyeom had been dragged off to town by Bambam, Seunghoon tagging along just in case. Mark is skyping his mom in the living room and Jaebum's still asleep—for once, Youngjae's up earlier than him. The dorm is blessedly quiet.

Gesturing at the books in front of him, Youngjae says, "I've got an English test in a week. Help me?"

He's equally ashamed and gratified by the sheer happiness in the beam that takes over Jackson's face. "Yeah, yeah sure! Anything for my dear dongsaeng."

They spend the next couple of hours bent over Youngjae's textbooks at the kitchen table. Mark joins them soon after, laughingly correcting Jackson when he gets too eager. Youngjae decides he likes it better when Mark explains things. He says as much, to Jackson's outrage.

"See if I help you again next time," he huffs and pouts, not quite pulling his punches when he smacks them. It brings a glint to Mark's eye that makes Youngjae break out in laughter.

That's how Jaebum finds them when he finally pads into the kitchen, yawning and scratching at his belly through a paper thin sleep shirt, Youngjae rubbing at his sore arm and Mark with Jackson in a headlock.

"Jaebum hyung! Look at them ganging up against me," Jackson whines, ducking out from under Mark's arm and latching onto Jaebum's.

When Jaebum just blinks blearily at him, sleep rumpled and barely awake, Youngjae laughs harder. He nearly misses the way Jackson turns his cheek into Jaebum's shoulder to hide the smile that threatens to break out, the way Jaebum leans back into him, easy, unthinking.

"I'm sorry, hyung. But if it's any consolation, you're way more entertaining than Mark hyung," he reassures, meeting Mark's raised palm in a resounding smack.

Jackson shakes his head, bemoaning, "And I thought Yugyeom was bad. I think I liked you better when you were anti-social and cosplaying good dongsaeng. What did we ever do to deserve this?"

He's all mock misery and Youngjae's unrepentant grin just grows wider. Tuesday is a good day.

 

He's packing later when Jaebum's shadow falls over him.

"Remember to take a jacket. It's starting to get cold."

"I'm wearing that one." Youngjae indicates the one on their futon as he continues to roll up a couple of shirts. He tucks them in next to neatly folded jeans.

"Still, take another."

"Hyung, I have a ton of jackets at home. And coats. And sweaters. I'm not going to freeze. Also, it's only September."

There's a couple of beats of silence, then a heap of worn leather lands in Youngjae's lap with a muttered  _just in case_ and Youngjae groans.

"I'm already bringing one. Hyung."

"Yeah, but mine's cooler. You're a soon-to-be idol now, you need to look the part. You can't be a fashion terrorist forever."

Jaebum plops himself down next to Youngjae, reaches for the last shirt he'd picked out for the trip. He starts rolling it up, ignoring Youngjae's protests that he's not doing it right. Gesturing at the duffel, he says, "Do you really need to bring so much home? Even your books? It looks like you emptied the shelf."

Youngjae shrugs. "My exams are right after the holidays, I need to study."

"I know, but... the room seems so empty. So neat."

Youngjae chuckles. "I'll be back in no time, hyung, and you can nag at me to pick up after myself again." 

Jaebum's about to reply when he's cut off by Yugyeom poking his head around the door.

"Seunghoon hyung says whenever you're ready." He tosses a snapback Youngjae's way, still wrapped in plastic. "That's from Bam and me. Happy birthday in advance, hyung."

It's white with a black brim, understated despite the leather material. Youngjae flips it over to see his name and a stylized GOT7 embroidered on the inside of the sweatband. Warmth bubbles in his chest.

"Thanks," he says, grinning at Yugyeom.

"You're welcome. Enjoy your trip."

He disappears with a quick wave and a flash of a peace sign, and Jaebum reaches out to ruffle Youngjae's hair as he too gets up to leave. "I'll leave you to it. Study hard, yeah? Say hi to your parents for me."

"Will do, hyung."

"And take the jacket."

Youngjae just sighs.

 

His birthday falls on the last leg of his trip, just before he's scheduled to return to Seoul. He drinks his fill of seaweed soup, eats his weight in noodles, waves off seconds at the rice cake stall. The smell of the sea surrounds him and Youngjae's the happiest he's been in months.

He's scarfing down the last bit of yakisoba—his fourth noodle dish of the day—when his phone lights up with a text. He opens it up, expecting to see yet another selfie from Bambam, or the remains of supper from Jackson, or random picture updates from Mark. The latter has been coming with increasing frequency the longer Youngjae has been away, usually with impeccable timing to make him snort into whatever he was currently inhaling.

He's not too sure why Mark (and Jinyoung too, more recently) has been sending him potential blackmail material. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he saves the picture of Yugyeom falling asleep into his chocolate shake just in case. For posterity.

Also because the straw poking into his nose is something Youngjae doesn't plan to ever let Yugyeom live down.

It's not any of his members (teammates, friends, brothers) this time but Seunghoon, to tell him that he'll be at the bus station tomorrow to pick him up. It hits Youngjae then that it's his last night at home, that in less that twenty-four hours, he'll be back in Seoul, in their dorm in the tiny room he shares with Jaebum. He waits for the disappointment to come, but when it does it almost feels like an afterthought.

Instead, he finds himself looking forward to lounging in front of the TV, to butter-grilled pork, to the solid line of warmth that plasters against his back when he sleeps.

It's a strange feeling, this misplaced sense of homesickness that just a few months ago, Youngjae would have never pegged would have applied to the two thousand square feet apartment and six teenage boys he's been asked to call home.

Rather like two puzzle pieces (or seven) that you never thought were meant to fit, but slot together smoothly when you try.

Youngjae can't wait for tomorrow. 

 

The bus ride back to Seoul is smooth-going and takes just five hours and change. He spends most of it alternating between looking at his phone and out the window, anticipation thrumming through his veins.

Even with Seunghoon's expert weaving through traffic, it's pretty late when they finally get back to the dorm. The living room is dark, but there is light spilling out from under Jackson and Mark's door, accompanied by the muted thumping of a bass line from Bambam and Yugyeom's. He waves good night to Seunghoon, who leaves him with a soft _rest well_ and a clap on the back before disappearing into his room.

He finds Jinyoung and Mark in the kitchen, bent over an iPad and shared headphones.

"Hey," he says when they look up, just a little awkward. He holds up the bags in his hands. "Mom made us kimchi and side dishes."

"Really? That's awesome, you’ll have to thank her for us," Jinyoung says, getting up to help Youngjae put the tupperwares away. "How was your trip?"

"Good." Youngjae nods, grinning at Jinyoung. "I met up with some friends from school and ate non-stop. Noona was back home from college too so we got to spend time together, which was nice."

"Ah, the sister you refuse to introduce to any of us," Mark teases, and Youngjae shrugs.

"She already has a boyfriend, hyung. Besides, it’s not like we can date, or have time to."

"Sure, Youngjae. Don't help a bro out."

"Sorry hyung, you may be my hyung, but she’s my only _sister_."

The last word comes out as wheeze as he ducks to avoid Jinyoung's playful cuff, relishing Mark’s laughter as he sticks his tongue out at them the way Yugyeom likes to do. He grins at Jinyoung’s vague fist-waving as he retreats to the relative safety of the living room, calling out a cheerful goodnight as he goes.

He takes his time in the shower, humming to himself as he carefully scrubs off all the dust and grime of the road. There’s a row of shampoos on the wire rack, and Youngjae grins when his eyes fall on the one right at the end. It’s violently pink, smells overwhelmingly fruity, and if Bambam were to be believed, makes your hair twice as thick and shiny. It’s also Bambam’s pet peeve when someone else uses his shampoo, so Youngjae deliberately squeezes some onto his palm.

Just imagining Bambam's indignance (if he ever finds out) makes fondness squeeze his chest.

Once he’s sufficiently clean and fresh, he pushes open the door to his and Jaebum’s room, dropping his duffel against the wall as silently as he can, laying Jaebum's jacket over the back of a chair. The only light came from the window, from the dim, flickering lamps that line the hallway outside. It illuminates the unmoving lump under the thin blankets.

He can tell Jaebum is asleep, has been asleep for a while, from the way his chin is tucked into his chest, nearly half a foot away from his pillow. He’s facing the wall, breathing deep and even, barely twitching when Youngjae gingerly steps over him to crawl under the covers, lifting an outstretched arm out of the way as he does so.

He’s just finished texting his parents and is settling into the futon when Jaebum snuffles softly, reaching over to lock an arm familiarly around Youngjae’s waist and pulling him back into a hard chest. Youngjae grins. Jaebum, for all the macho male front he puts up, is surprisingly cuddly when tired and half asleep. Much like a kitten, Youngjae thinks warmly. 

“Youngjae?”

Jaebum’s voice is thick with sleep, and Youngjae knows if he turns around, the normally piercing eyes will still be shut tight. Jaebum’s not the best at waking up alert.

“Hey hyung,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

“You’re home,” he hears instead. The arm around him tightens, Jaebum’s fringe brushing the back of his neck. It tickles.

Youngjae lets out the breath he didn’t know he had been holding and settles back against Jaebum, contentment creeping into his chest.

He’s home.

 

There’s an old legend in Mokpo about a young man who lived with his sickly father. Poor as dirt, he took work as a farmhand for a rich lord, who promised to give him enough money to cure his father’s illness if he did a good job. In the end, though, the promised payment never came, and when he returned home in despair, his father’s body was stone cold.

A filial son, he was determined to give his father a proper burial, but while crossing the ocean, he slipped and dropped his father's coffin into the ocean. Grieving and anguished about failing his father, the young man sat still in the ocean without eating or drinking until he turned to stone.

At the lookout, Youngjae stares at the rocks representing the young man and his father, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the ground. The hiking trail is surprisingly deserted even though it’s a beautiful Sunday morning, the expanse of ocean glittering as far as the eye could see.

He thinks of his life here at home, the life he would have in Seoul, if he decides to go. Everyone has been encouraging, ecstatic for him, but he sees the wary reluctance in his parents' eyes, the wrinkled skin of his grandmother's hands, the strained but supportive smiles of his siblings. 

But then he thinks of the stage, of hot, blinding lights, his voice magnified and millions chanting his name. 

The ringing of his phone shatters the silence of the morning, startling a couple of seagulls nearby into a flurry of wings.

“Hey mom. Yeah, I’m heading home now. I’ll pick up the stuff from the store, don’t worry. And mom? I think I've made up my mind.”

Sliding his phone back into his pocket, he takes a deep breath and makes himself a silent promise, then turns to start back down the trail.

The salt lingers in his lungs. 

**Author's Note:**

> The legend in the story exists and is one of the stories of the Gatbawi rock formation in Mokpo. 
> 
> Damn this thing was hard to write. I started out with good intentions for sleepy 2jae cuddles but then it grew into... this. Supposedly a Youngjae birthday fic... yep, it's October.
> 
> Happy belated birthday, sunshine Choi Youngjae! ♥


End file.
